Balancing the Scales Read online

  For some insane reason, I want to finish that statement with, Shove that in your bagel and eat it.

  Chapter 2

  Drew

  “A toast. To the most ruthless son of a bitch in the state.”

  I raise my glass of scotch level with Marty’s. That’s Marty Statham, by the way. Of Statham Turner. The named partner who will end up backing me to get my name on the door one day. And one of my closest friends.

  We met when I was new to the firm and he was a jumped up associate who thought he could order me around. It was the definition of a love-hate relationship. We both hated each other and… Nope, it was just a hate relationship and we eventually came to respect each other. The thing is, if you spend enough hours locked in a glass tower together, respect and a good working relationship eventually blur the line between business and friendship. A mutual love of sports and good liquor got Marty and I a long way.

  “Ah, Jesus, Drew, Wickman didn’t know what hit him. You came at him so hard and fast he didn’t even see your turbo ass blazing right by him to the finish line.”

  “You say that like I was ever behind him in the race.” I sip my fine single malt on the rocks.

  “Our man was as guilty as sin, and Wickman had one hell of a witness. He definitely started in poll position.”

  I can’t help feeling smug. “Too bad he got caught out doing shady shit to get his witness.” I won the case on a technicality that meant Wickman’s key witness testimony was inadmissible. That’s the only part about the win that sucks. I would have liked to kick his ass in a real dogfight.

  As if his thoughts mirror my own, Marty tells me, “A win on technicality is still a win, buddy. What are you eating?”

  There’s no need for me to open the black leather-bound menu on the table in front of me. We’ve been celebrating big wins at this same place for years. It’s the city’s finest French restaurant and there’s only one thing for a win like today’s…steak au poivre.

  Despite being a big, modern space, the restaurant is packed, andthe atmosphere is buzzing. The only nights this place isn’t teeming with people are Sundays and Mondays, and that’s because it’s closed. But the crowds never affect the quality of the food. Edmond Devereux is a five-star head chef, and I know personally that he is all about his standards. He employs only the best.

  It’s a good thing really, since his poker skills are awful, at best, and he does like a poker night with the boys.

  Our order is taken by a waitress. I watch through the window to the open kitchen as she hands the ticket to Edmond. When he reads it, he seeks out Marty and me and holds up a hand in greeting.

  “I don’t need to tell you, Drew, this case won’t hurt your chances of taking a named spot next to me.” Marty leans in and lowers his voice. “I didn’t tell you, obviously, but Turner is on his way out. He’s talking about giving notice of his retirement soon. Very soon.”

  Outwardly, I remain cool as I sip from my crystal glass. Inside, I’m buzzing. I was the youngest junior partner ever at Statham Turner. I busted a gut to make it to senior partner two years ago, when I was only thirty-two. If I made named partner by thirty-five…shit.

  I’m about to respond to Marty when a loud clatter pulls my attention to the service counter in the kitchen. Three staff bend to the ground to pick up whatever just spilled. One head pops up before the others. Blondie. She’s apologizing profusely to Edmond who, oddly for him, seems to be taking it well.

  “New girl,” Marty says. I imagine he’s rolling his eyes and shaking his head, but my focus is on the petite blonde. She glances around the restaurant, her eyes full of apology. The fire I saw this morning is lost behind something…embarrassment, maybe. Her hair is tied back from her face, and her cheeks flush pink. Jesus, she’s stunning.

  “You know her?” Marty asks.

  I tear my gaze from Blondie, confused. I thought she made cupcakes. Well, okay I thought she made some kind of cakes. What is she doing in Edmond’s restaurant? “Not exactly. I bought her breakfast this morning.”

  “She’s the one you picked up last night?”

  I can’t resist another glance, but when I look at the station, the mess has been cleared and Blondie is nowhere to be seen.

  “Ah, no. She was at Fabio’s truck this morning. Long story. I ended up paying for her breakfast, that’s all.”

  He whistles through his teeth and leans back, jiggling his tie for effect. “Didn’t hook up with her and you still got stung for breakfast. Some might say you’re losing your touch, Drew.”

  It irks me that he’s talking about the woman as a lay, and I have no idea why. Brushing off that alien feeling, I tell him, “No chance, Marty. You’re way off base. I’ll keep smooth talking my way to the best picks, and you can take what’s left in the draft.”

  We eat steak and drink wine, moving from talking NFL references for playing the field to talking about the Yankees’ upcoming game against the Red Sox. More than once, my attention drifts as I search the visible kitchen area for Blondie.

  Our plates are cleared, and I’m looking for her again.

  “Drew, what’s up with you tonight?”

  I finish the wine in my glass—specially paired to the steak—and play ignorant. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve had half an ear at this table all night.”

  “Sorry, man. I guess it’s been a long day.”

  Marty sits back in his chair and accepts a dessert menu handed to him by a waiter in a vest. “Nothing to do with the fact you’ve been looking around the place like a hungry tiger?”

  A tiger. That’s right. That’s who I am. Aggressive. Always on the prowl. King of the fucking circuit. Not a guy who wants to know more about the petite, yet perfectly curved, indecisive Brit with the most fucking adorable smile I’ve ever seen.

  Clearing my throat, I drag my head back in the game. “You haven’t moaned like a bitch over the Giants’ draft this week. You finally made peace with the selections?”

  “Fuck no.” And we’re back. Marty spends the next ten minutes crying like a little girl with pigtails and a pretty pink dress over the shit storm he predicts in the next NFL season.

  I’m leaning back, laughing at Marty, because he’s now so worked up he’s pulling his hair out. I’m not even speaking figuratively. His knuckles are white as he tugs on his roots.

  “You need to calm down, Marty. I think I see you thinning on top.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Yep, there it is. Just around the crown there.”

  I spring forward, and my laughter dies instantly when Blondie’s striking blue eyes are looking right at me. “Erm, hi again.”

  There’s a moment of silence between us. I must have lost my mind somewhere between scotch and wine because I can’t think of a damn thing to say. I’m just staring. Possibly memorizing every contour of her face. Frozen.

  For the record, this never happens.

  I feel Marty’s focus flick between Blondie and me, and I come back to life.

  “I didn’t realize you were a waitress. I thought you made cupcakes.”

  “Ah, I’m not.” She gestures to her white coat and the apron that’s tied tightly around her slim waist. “And like I told you this morning, I don’t make cupcakes. But I do prefer being hidden behind those walls to being out here.”

  Hidden? She should be on display. The comment seems entirely at odds with the confident, back-chatting woman I met this morning.

  “Anyway, I, erm, wanted to give you this.” She places ten dollars on the table in front of me. “Turns out I left my purse here this morning. Thank you for your help.”

  I slide the bill back toward her. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t need reimbursing.”

  Her features visibly stiffen, and I start to see the feisty woman from the bagel truck. “I’m sure you don’t. But I don’t want to owe yo
u anything.”

  “I wasn’t holding a debt against you. Call it part of your tip.”

  Her eyes widen, and I realize how shitty that remark must have sounded.

  “Wow, you really are an arrogant knob.”

  And you are still as hot as this morning.

  Marty leans back in his seat. He looks primed to retort. I won’t let him have a go at her. But I will take it on myself.

  “I’m not sure you’re supposed to insult paying customers. Is that a British thing?”

  She opens her mouth as if she’d like to counter. From what I’ve seen of her so far, I’d expect nothing less. But she must check herself at the last minute because she closes her mouth and twists her lips into a fake smile, as if she’s a wind-up toy. She leaves the bill on the table between us, Alexander Hamilton staring up at me, and asks, “Can I get you any dessert?”

  I almost scoff at how clearly annoyed she is.

  “I’ll take the cheesecake,” Marty tells her. She nods, and her tightly held jaw seems to relax momentarily, before she looks back to me and raises her eyebrows.

  “I’m not a sweet kind of guy,” I tell her.

  “Funnily enough, I didn’t have you pegged as a sweet buy, but I would like to know if you want pudding.”

  Now I can’t help the pfft of humor that escapes me. “All right, I’m not a dessert man.”

  Her scowl seems to disappear and she bites her lip. I think she’s fighting a smile. The things that simple move do to me beneath the table are outrageous.

  “That’s because you haven’t had my desserts,” she tells me.

  “That’s right, your cupcakes.”

  She all but growls through her teeth. “I don’t make cupcakes. You’re impossible. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  “Lots of people, actually. I’m still not a cupcake fan though, thanks anyway.”

  Shaking her head, she walks away from the table.

  “What in the hell was that about?”

  I take another second to watch that ass walk away from me, then give Marty my attention. “Since when do you order dessert?”

  “Since the pastry chef looks like her.”

  I want to tell him to stay the hell away from the pastry chef. Instead, I hold up a hand to the barman at the far side of the room. He knows my usual.

  As I’m enjoying my cognac, Blondie returns with four plates, two in each arm. She grips a plate of cheesecake in her right hand, with another plate stacked behind it, balanced on her forearm. She holds out her arm in front of Marty. “I’m so sorry, I’m a chef, not a waitress. I’ve worked out how to carry this many plates but not how to put them down. Would you mind?”

  Marty’s eyes run all over her as he takes the plate with cheesecake. His interest makes me want to tear his eyes from their sockets.

  Blondie doesn’t seem to notice it. She turns to me and inclines her head to the plates she’s holding. “Your turn.” The remaining three plates contain exquisite-looking desserts. Not cupcakes at all but fine cakes, decorated in what can only be described as art. Intricate sugar and chocolate art.

  “Opera with a Twist. Violet Passion. Red Silk. That’s my take on red velvet cake.”

  I stare at the plates, honestly, a little wowed.

  “Well, help me out here.”

  I feel my brows furrow as I take the Opera cake from her right arm. Gold dust decorates the plate and what looks like gold leaf has been crumbled into flakes and scattered around the top, making the thing look like a million dollars. Blondie puts the other two plates down on the table in front of me, shuffling my cognac aside to make room.

  Nope, these are definitely not Granny’s homemade cupcakes.

  “They’re on the house. You can thank me by enjoying them. Enjoy the rest of your evening, gents.” I notice now that her white uniform has been replaced by jeans and a blouse.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, without knowing why.

  “To bed.” The thought of Blondie in bed has me swallowing so hard my Adam’s apple is practically grating my neck. “It’s been a long day, and yours is the last table for desserts, so I’m off duty. Plus, I have to be up at four a.m..”

  I watch her leave. I’m still looking as the door to the restaurant closes behind her. And I’m still looking when she walks by the window and glances back at me.

  Chapter 3

  Drew

  Towel drying my hair, I move around my apartment, blissfully naked. Dropping the towel around my neck, I pour myself a black coffee and look at the three takeout boxes lined along the granite top of my kitchen counter. The woman made me take a doggy bag, for Christ’s sake. The thought makes me snicker. Drew Harrington took a doggy bag from a restaurant and actually headed home, alone, after dinner. It’s not like the coming-home-alone thing never happens. But it never happens the night after a big win in court.

  Ignoring the white cartons, I take my caffeine hit to the wall of windows and watch the rising sun. But they’re leering at me. I can feel the calories goading me from the counter. The sugar and fat staring at the muscles of my back that I work damn hard to keep in good shape. I had tried the Opera cake in the restaurant. I’d eaten a quarter, and though I didn’t think I reacted to the most delectable thing I have ever tasted, something made Marty lean over the table and cut off a forkful. The remaining half of the Opera cake, along with the Violet Passion and Red Silk, were placed into cartons and bagged up for me to take away.

  It left me no choice but to come home alone. It’s not like I could have taken my doggy bag to another bar.

  I turn my back to the window and stare at the three boxes. I can almost taste the sweetness of Opera with a Twist. The bitter aftertaste of something, dark chocolate, perhaps, left in my mouth. My tongue slips along my lip as I remember the way the ganache dissolved—light, slick, delicious.

  Fuck it.

  I grab a fork, pull up a stool at my breakfast bar, and open the lid of each carton. I start with Opera with a Twist. I need just one more mouthful. And shit, Opera plus coffee. Now there’s a match made in obesity heaven.

  I take every last piece from my fork, licking the sides; then I open my eyes to Red Silk.

  White chocolate flakes, not flakes, something fancier than flakes, decorate the top of red waves of smooth, glossy icing. It really does look like silk. Suddenly, my mind is no longer on cake but the thought of Blondie in a red silk lingerie set. Maybe something trimmed in black lace. The cups of the bra barely covering her nipples so her plump mounds are pushed up, inviting my mouth.

  Jesus, Drew. It’s a fucking cake.

  Cracking my neck and clearing my throat in an extremely masculine way, I slide my fork through the lingerie topping and into layers of red velvet cake and cream. The cream oozes as the steel cuts through the dessert. I’m fighting to keep my filthy mind on cake as I bring the fork to my mouth.

  Damn. I was wrong. This isn’t just cream. It’s…more. White chocolate. Vanilla. I have no idea beyond how good it tastes on my tongue. I wonder how Blondie would taste on my tongue?

  With coffee, I wash away the thought of making the woman I don’t know, the woman who is absolutely not my type, squirm under my touch.

  I turn my attention to the third and final cake. Violet Passion. As I whisper the name to myself, my fucking mindless cock twitches. This. This is exactly why I need to get laid after a big win. Now I have excess testosterone that I’m going to have to take care of before I go to the office.

  Violet Passion is cylindrical. A purple shiny finish, as shiny as Red Silk, covers the entire cake. A simple yellow and purple flower sits in the middle of the dessert. I hope that’s edible.

  My fork glides through the cake like a hot knife through butter. As the round bursts, syrup spills through the layers of purple and yellow, the exotic scent of passionfruit striking my nose. Taking a piece of everythin
g and pushing syrup onto my fork with my finger, I taste Violet Passion.

  Sweetness. A sour kick. If a cake can be quirky, this is quirky. This is…this is Blondie. Those sweet dimples. That perfect smile. Her sharpness of mind. Her quirky-as-hell sayings. Her Britishisms.

  Holy shit, I have a thing for the indecisive, kind of obnoxious, brilliant and beautiful patisserie chef.

  “That’s ridiculous,” I say for the benefit of no one other than my sanity. I like brunettes, for a start. Tall, leggy brunettes. I like women who are less interested in bickering with me and more interested in getting laid.

  I close the lids on passion and silk and head back to the shower. This testosterone has got to go. Now.

  * * * *

  As I stand on the sidewalk outside Lexington Tower, I’m feeling better. A hell of a lot more rational now that my right hand has straightened me out.

  I consider avoiding Fabio’s altogether. I definitely don’t need any more to eat for breakfast after those cakes. But I do want a coffee.

  Marty opens a car door and steps onto the sidewalk in front of me. I break my pace to allow us to walk in sync.

  “Fabio’s?” he asks.

  I nod. “You look rough.”

  “I call this look Veronica.”

  “Veronica for the third time in two weeks. Are you sure she’s still just a lay?”

  “Are you keeping tabs on my sex life now, Harrington?”

  “No. But I am keeping tabs on your impending matrimony.”

  He chortles. “No chance. I’m like the Dean Martin of the circuit.”

  I scoff. “The hell you are.”

  “Actually, let’s go with Sinatra. Still a notorious ladies man but more classy about it than Dean Martin. That’s me. Classy bachelor.”

  This time, my scoff turns to a laugh. Fabio waves a hand at us from his truck. “The usual?” he shouts.

  I tell him just coffee for me. Marty gets his standard turkey bacon bagel and a coffee.

  As I take my first mouthful of caffeine, Fabio leans on his forearms and asks, “What happened yesterday, my man?”